6 Bits of Wisdom for Single Women
Dear Single Ladies,
Hi. My name is Virgie Tovar and I know a lot about men. I have sacrificed my innocence, my reputation and hundreds of man hours to get the information I’m about to unleash upon you. The process of aforementioned loss came at the often delightful price of dinners in ambiently lit restaurants and Mission dive joints alike, on deliciously crisp hotel sheets and in heart-shaped tubs (yes, really… somewhere between El Sobrante and San Pablo, California), on good dates and bad, gushing orgasms and hasty handjobs.
First, men aren’t scary. That’s right. Men are not scary. Is it true that we live in a deeply misogynist culture? Yes. Do we live in a country in which men are likelier to commit violent acts against women and other men than women are? Yes. Do we live in a culture where women and girls are harmed often by men? Yes. Trust me. I’m more worried about getting shut out of the sisterhood of feminism than you know, but I’m willing to put that on the line to say that I refuse to see men as people to be feared. They are difficult to understand, at times awkward, perhaps poorly dressed, maybe lacking in tact or that perfect combination of charming and disarming you or I may seek, but don’t be afraid of them because they are also sweet and thoughtful, silly and shy, yummy and cute, smart and dynamic.
About two months ago I woke up one morning and asked myself, “would my life be better if I weren’t afraid of men?” I too (perhaps like you) had been taught that men were like chimps – violent and aggressive with tendencies toward belligerence and sexual assault. Despite my overwhelmingly positive experiences with men – romantic or sexual, friend or lover - I still found my pulse quickening when a man got too close to me on the train platform on my way home. I decided that the answer to my question was a resounding yes. Yes, my life would be better if I weren’t afraid of men. And so I decided to stop. Then and there.
From that point forward I decided that men were people with penises, and some of them were mean people with penises. I decided that as a 250-pound woman that I am bigger than most people (with or without a penis) and that I am strong and even stronger when I am angry or upset (thank you, adrenaline). And I realized that being afraid of one of them potentially going rogue would only make my ability to be rational less likely if the situation were ever to arise.
Second, your pussy is yours and exists for your pleasure. If your upbringing was anything like mine you were taught that your pussy is some kind of pseudo-public property, belonging to your family and Jesus and then your boyfriend or your husband. If your upbringing was anything like mine you knew that touching yourself was shameful and that concerning yourself with your pleasure was not a priority and was perhaps downright rude. You may have spent years (and years) trying to “do sex” correctly, studying your partners’ facial expressions and moans so diligently you almost didn’t notice that you had a clitoris. I remember once when I was in college I met this hairless Russian with a great dick. He was wonderful (!) in the sack and once he said to me something I never forgot. I was on top and had expressed anxiety about my inexperience with this position. He smiled and said “just enjoy the ride.” And that was it. That was all I needed.
Third, if you’re seeking monogamy do not date someone who owns a Costco-sized toothbrush multi-pack. The only people I know who have that many tooth brushes are the owners of the women’s bath house on Geary and Fillmore. And they service over 100 women a day. Enough said. But just to give this little nugget of wisdom some context, I used to date this guy named Tony. He was older, had a goatee and that je-ne-sais-quoi element about him that I later learned was eau de big-fucking-liar but at the time I interpreted as lust-inspiring mysteriousness. He had a Costco toothbrush multi-pack. I remember the morning after the first time I spent the night at his place I asked if I could use his toothbrush and he pulled open his bottom drawer and handed me a spanking new one from the pack. I recall that my gut raised a grumble of dissent but I quickly squashed its vote of un-confidence. It turns out he had a wife and a cadre of other lovely dark-haired lovers.
Likewise, do not date a man who drives a mini-van or who happens to be unable to call you after 5pm. There are a million and one possible reasons why these things are happening – Yes, he’s tall but mini-vans are not the vehicle choice of single tall men and maybe he doesn’t get cell reception at his house but once I knew a guy who only had cell reception when his head was in his kitchen sink. Guess what? He called me from his kitchen sink - but there’s also about a 99% chance it’s the one you’re wishing, hoping, praying it ain’t.
Fourth, treat dating like a treat, not a chore. Dating and sex can exist for the sole purpose of meeting someone new, having a story to tell that’s unbelievable, having amazing orgasms or just “eh” orgasms (those can be good too), experimentation, anthropological posterity, shared meals, the excitement of not knowing. All of these things are worthwhile all on their own.
Fifth, men are allowed to not like you. What? Don’t you have preferences? I know I do. And I’m pretty wedded to them. They change from time to time. Recently I’ve discovered that I don’t actually care about whether my man’s balls are hairy or not. The point is that many people find a range of people attractive.
Some people have hard and fast rules, but lots of us don’t. I used to think I was getting the short end of the stick because I’m a fat girl, but it turns out that – despite what you may have heard from me 5 years ago – I actually did not want to be with someone who loved me for the “beautiful person I was inside” (I have yet to meet this beautiful person living inside me) nor did I want to fuck anybody whose “progressive size politics” outweighed what got his cock hard. I wanted someone who wanted to fuck me every which way just the way I was because I was that way.
It turns out I like being fat more than I like being anything else and, around the same time I started using the word “fat” to describe myself I found a near universally released sigh of relief from men who liked my fat ass just the way it was thank you very much. And who were delighted to be able to finally grab the belly and thick thighs of this one fat girl after so many years of wishing and wanting lots of other fat girls.
Sixth (and this is going to be the final), don’t bother trying. It sounds weird, I know. I’m not saying don’t bathe, but if I’ve learned anything it’s that trying to fake it is pointless. I used to think that no one would ever want to be with a true blue slut. Once a man found out that I had done this or that, or that I’d been masturbating for this many years, or that I liked porn + a vibrator during sex, that there was no way he would ever want to be with me for more than one night. So, I tried to hide it.
I tortured myself, refused sex I wanted, denied fantasies I had, lost moments of luscious intimacy in the name of trying to make something “happen” between me and some unwitting guy I’d written into my future without his consent. And after all that, I end up on a radio show where I’m spilling my guts – the real deep, down, dirty personal stuff – and some guy in New Zealand hears it and falls in love with me, tells me I’m the girl he’s dreamed of since he was a little boy, that I’m the most beautiful woman in the world and that I should never, ever wish to be anyone besides myself.
So, Single Ladies, that’s about it. That’s some of the creme-de-la-creme advice I’ve got.
Use it wisely.